


Pull Off My Armor, Knees Bruised and Naked

by That_stupid_girl



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Anxiety, Erin's really anxious about everything, F/F, I fucking love Ghostbusters, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Mild Hurt/Comfort, and really in love with Holtz, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:54:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7531819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_stupid_girl/pseuds/That_stupid_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is normal, finally, and it's good, it is, Erin's just not really sure what normal means, anymore. </p><p>or</p><p>The one where Erin has called herself names even Abby hasn’t heard, but she’s straight, she is, and Kevin is everything she’s ever wanted and the thought of Jillian with anyone else doesn’t make her want to turn her body inside out all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Off My Armor, Knees Bruised and Naked

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve seen this movie three times and loved every second of it, but this is A Hot Mess™ and has so many comma splices and run on sentences and just general fucked up punctuation, and the word and probably appears at least 4000 times. So. 
> 
> Triggering stuff should be in the tags?? I hope?
> 
> The title is from the song Vessels by Julien Baker, who is the fucking coolest, seriously, and has such great music and is definitely gonna be really famous soon.

The first time Erin sees Jillian Holtzmann she swears her heart skips two full beats.

Erin’s no stranger to palpitations and a rapid pulse and the feeling that everything’s wrong, but this, this is something she doesn’t want to think about, _refuses_ to think about.

Erin used to stand, in her room, in line, in the middle of a dance floor, a two finger salute to her pulse point and eyes fixed on her watch. She’d count the beats under her fingers as she watched the second hand move for ten seconds (multiply the beats by six), or thirty (by two), or even for the full minute, just to see how quickly her heart was racing. She never really knew her resting heart rate because her head would never shut up, and her heart would never stop listening.

About a year into high school she realized that wasn’t making people like her any better; there were other ways to memorize her blood flow, after all. 

But now, standing in a basement lab that smells like gym socks, bad Chinese food, and weed, Erin wants nothing more than to know how fast her heart is pumping. She thinks she can feel it against her ribcage. 

She tells herself it’s the anger, because, god, is she angry, or just the anxiety at seeing the only person who ever treated her like she was worth more than a joke after six years of radio silence. She knows that’s not it; she knows what her heart does when she gets too nervous, knows that her mouth goes dry and her hands turn earthquake and she sweats and, okay, she’s sweating now (too much, god, she looks a mess), but her hands are still and her knees are weak and this is _different,_  and Erin just wants to see Abby, yell at her, maybe, and leave. Never see Jillian again, as much as that makes her chest hurt.

Then Abby walks out, and Erin refocuses on her fury and tries not to think about how, even after all these years, Abby looks like home. Erin’s pretty positive Abby doesn’t feel the same way. 

Erin is _mad_ , but Abby is Abby and ghosts, however embarrassing, are exciting, whether Erin will admit it or not. Erin doesn’t break rules on principle because her wrists itch at the thought of being reprimanded, but she pushes the cart of metal and danger and _hope_ across the street, wobbling in her heels, anyway. She tries not to watch Jillian, but she’s so weird and it’s just so _hard_.

But then they see a ghost, like a real fucking ghost, and Erin can’t think about anything but how she was right she was _right she was right_ , and Abby hugs her, ectoplasm and all, and Erin realizes no one’s done that for a very long time. She’s never felt happier than right then, second best suit completely ruined and screaming into a camera. It feels _good_.

Until she gets fired, which is mortifying, honestly, and sucks more than she ever thought it would because she _knows_ that she’s right. She’s right and they kick her out anyway and it _hurts_ , but she goes straight to Abby and Holtzmann’s lab and not to her apartment. She keeps her sleeves rolled down and her hands away from sharp things. She’s acting weird, she knows, but it’s still harder than she wants it to be and it isn’t something she can just mention in passing.  

Erin goes home shortly after she eats very little dinner with them. She thinks about Holtzmann and how _strange_ she is and how Erin has never wanted to understand something more. She can’t stop _thinking_ , like always, but it hasn’t even been three months since the last time she cut herself open and she can’t do that right now, she _can’t_. She needs to do better.  

She strips out of her dress, doesn’t even toss it in the hamper, just leaves it piled on the floor on her way to the bathroom. She wants to cry and she doesn’t know why. She turns on the shower and hates how long it takes to heat up. She unhooks her bra and drops it on the floor, kicks her underwear to the other side of the room. 

The water’s still too cold and Erin doesn’t know why she feels so _weird_. She rubs her forearms, doesn’t want to look at them, though, even faded to white like most of them are. She raises an arm to her mouth, bites down hard enough to bruise but not to break skin and counts to five. She gets in the shower after that and the water is _hot_ , almost boiling, probably, but it’s good. Erin sits down, cross legged, and doesn’t move for at least ten minutes. The water starts to cool down and she turns the knob farther, wincing at the heat. She never takes showers longer than fifteen minutes, twenty tops, but it’s been more than half an hour when she gets out. She didn’t even wash her hair.  

She goes to bed in a sports bra, her MIT sweatshirt, and a pair of plaid boxers from Target. She counts in her head until she falls asleep. The last number she remembers is 2,120. 

She tries not to look at Jillian too much and mostly succeeds. She keeps her eyes on her papers and, ~~when~~  if she glances over at Holtzmann’s work bench, she tells herself she’s looking at the machines. It’s a little true, at least. 

But, god, Jillian Holtzmann is probably the most wonderful thing Erin has ever seen, PhD and grants and every ghost included. Erin looks at her, sometimes, when she doesn’t realize she is quickly enough, and Erin, well, Erin’s a mess, and she sweats when she gets nervous and Jillian makes her _so_ nervous, and, come on, Jillian’s hot as hell and that doesn’t help either. Erin looks ridiculous. 

But then Kevin comes in, and he’s hot, too, she knows that. A good excuse for her sweaty face, at least. He’s groomed and well dressed and really well built and she should like him, probably, so she does. She’s pretty sure she takes it overboard, though, and she’s surprised Abby can’t tell how much she’s faking and how uncomfortable it makes her. Abby mostly just seems excited, and a little annoyed, maybe. 

She thinks if she keeps talking about Kevin and how how wonderful and wonderfully good looking he is the rest of her will get the idea. He’s hot, and she should like him. But then, maybe not. She says he’s nice to look at and Abby looks at her like she’s said ghosts aren’t real.

“Kevin?” she asks. Erin can’t help but shrink in slightly, wanting to crawl inside her body and stay there. He’s hot, he _is_ , even she should be able to tell that.  

“What?” she asks, brave facade as in place as it ever is. “You don’t think he’s…” But Abby’s still looking at her like there’s something wrong with her (which there is), and Erin isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do. It’s not like she can just randomly drop it when she made such a show of liking him, or his face, at least. 

It helps Erin when Patty starts showing up, a welcome distraction. It helps the whole operation immensely, even if no one will admit it. Patty’s funny and nice and determined as hell, and she also remembers everything they tell her and it’s so _helpful_. Erin’s a scientist, and she knows she’s smart, but she doesn’t usually try that hard to remember anything; she writes it down, detailed and neat and perfectly legible, to go over later. But Patty doesn’t need to. She remembers pretty much everything from all the books she’s ever read (history is her favorite, Erin assumes), and she knows when it will be useful. Erin’s not sure how to thank her, so she doesn’t.  

Erin keeps the whole Kevin thing up until she can’t anymore, mostly because she forgets she’s supposed to like him in all the chaos of Rowan and ghosts and a suddenly apocalyptic New York City. She’s so exhausted after, they all are, and when she hugs Abby it feels like home. She thinks Abby feels it too, now, like she did in high school.

She hugs Patty and feels like she’s going to die, because Patty, Patty is great, but she’s also a lot bigger than Erin, half a foot taller, at least, and Erin doesn’t love physical contact all that much in the first place. She definitely doesn’t love physical contact that squeezes her ribs closer together and pops something in her back. It’s nice, though, in a weird way. Abby was sort of the only friend she ever had, and now that’s not the case.

She hugs Jillian and tries her best to not think about her racing pulse and flushing face. She’s exhilarated, obviously; they just saved New York, after all, who wouldn’t be? So that’s all it is, she’s excited and she has an anxiety disorder and this is _normal_. It has nothing to do with Holtzmann’s smile or arms or hair, it has nothing to do with Holtzmann’s _anything_.

The four of them, and Kevin, fall into a routine. They do a little remodeling and move into the firehouse which is, fuck, which is _huge_ , honestly, bigger than Erin realized.

Kevin says he doesn’t want to live there, just needs a place to stay, and so they ask the mayor, because, again, _anything_ , and Kevin moves into a nice apartment on the same block. He says he wants to live alone, at least once in his life, because apparently he hasn’t before. (He lived with his mom up until moving in, and Erin, as mean as it sounds, can’t say she’s surprised.) It makes it easier to divide up space, though, since there’s more for them to use.  

Jillian called the second floor, which, okay, she admits was unreasonable, obviously, but she still ends up getting most of it. They have the actual kitchen at the front end of that floor, a bathroom, and then Jillian’s bedroom, which, honestly, is just a second lab with a bed. No one goes in there, really; they’re worried they might make something explode. 

Patty has the front third of the third floor, three huge windows and all. One of them looks out over a brick alley, but Patty says light is light and drapes colored cloth around the room. It’s beautiful, and Erin’s jealous of her decorating skills. There’s jewelry everywhere, somehow a design statement as well as a fashion one, and it’s just plain _pretty_. Erin’s not sure how Patty made a fire station look like a fairytale, but she’s impressed. 

Abby has the middle room, because _of course_ , and it’s so _Abby_. There’s everything everywhere, really: books, obviously, and dried flowers and souvenirs and photographs and posters and candles and pens and _memories_ , Erin knows, and she loves it, really, but she doesn’t see how Abby can keep everything from turning into a pile of a junk.  

And then Erin, on the end, the smallest windows but still well lit without lights. Her room is clean, weirdly so, everyone thinks, but Erin doesn’t know how to decorate, doesn’t know how to believe that the people in the pictures she puts up won’t change their minds and leave. She doesn’t tell them that, though, just says she likes the order, says she likes the contrast between her room and her job. 

She’s above Jillian, or half of Jillian’s room, at least, and she can sometimes hear loud music from the 80’s or small explosions. She worries about the noises (and the sparks and shocks that surely come with them) more than she’d like to admit. So she doesn’t, just pretends she’s not so happy to see Jillian, clean and unscathed, every morning. 

They have their lab downstairs, a sort of living/dining room deal, and a smaller, less functional kitchen. So that’s two kitchens total, but they still almost always order from restaurants. Erin’s pretty sure they’ve reached some unspoken agreement to eat their way through every culture and cuisine in New York.

Kevin hangs out at the firehouse most of the time, even when he’s not working, and he never cooks anything; Erin’s not even confident he knows how to use a microwave, so yeah, he’s not in there much, but Erin really is glad he’s there in the general firehouse. He’s nice and funny, if stupid as hell, and Erin worries about him when he’s not there; he lives alone, after all, and he’s just not that smart. Well meaning, of course, but that could easily come back to bite him in the ass.

So, yeah, they really don’t use the kitchens much, as nice as one of them is, or Abby and Patty and Jillian don’t, at least. Sometimes Erin’s arms start to itch late at night and she can’t think of enough to do with her hands and she bakes, a lot. She thinks Jillian might know, Erin doubts she’s ever asleep, but she doesn’t mention it, at least, and Erin gives everything she makes to Kevin, who accepts it without complaint (honestly, what even _is_ his metabolism?) and doesn’t ask why it exists in the first place. 

It’s normal. They work and talk and build and calculate and live, and it’s nice. It’s good. Erin’s clothes start to change, slowly, but heels and tweed suits that look sixty years old just aren’t practical in this business. Her clothes are her armor, her sleeves, especially, but she’ll have to find a new shield. She still looks awkward, she knows: shirts with small collars and less extreme blazers when they go out, pencil skirts and skinny slacks. She looks more normal, probably, more normal than Jillian, at least, but also more like her mother, so she’s not ready to say it’s a win.

Their clothes sort of mix together at the fire station. Erin usually ends up in her own pants, tight slacks or one of her two pairs of jeans, which Patty stared at in horror and told her were some awful combination of mom and boyfriend jeans. Shirts, though, shirts are sort of whatever. Erin likes button downs, obviously, and sweatshirts, long sleeves are more important than she wants them to be, so she ends up in her MIT hoodie a lot, or plaid shirts that she’s pretty sure aren’t hers but don’t seem to be anyone else’s either.

One day, almost a month after the Rowan incident, Erin walks into the lab and sees Jillian wearing a rather unfashionable blazer that definitely isn’t hers. She makes it look good. Jillian’s focused on her work, and Erin can’t help but stare. 

Jillian’s in what Erin thinks must be capri cargo pants, but tighter, and bright red, and a t shirt with a strangely psychedelic design and the neck cut out. And then the blazer, buttoned over the t shirt. And, of course, two mismatched socks pulled higher than her combat boots, her yellow glasses, the actual glasses pair, not any of the goggles or her space age spectacles, her ‘Screw U’ necklace, and her grey-green utility jacket. It shouldn’t work. Erin thinks her heart might break through her skin. 

Erin leaves the room before Holtz notices her, locks herself in the bathroom and falls on her knees, relishing in the bruises she knows will form and hating it. She stays there for a minute, then gets up, walks over to the sink and holds her hands under cold water while she tells herself all the ways she is dirty and awful and _wrong_. When she comes back Abby is there, too, and it’s easier to pretend. It’s fine. Everything is normal.

They laugh and eat and spend so much money, but it’s okay, because they can, and it’s not like it’s an unreasonable amount, anyway, just more than they would have been able to afford earlier. The next few days pass uneventfully, just one job and it’s an easy one, and a lot of sitting around. They watch all the Harry Potter movies and Erin doesn’t leave the station for three days.

One night Abby says they should get dinner from this really great Indian place that doesn’t deliver and asks if anyone will go with her to pick up the food. Erin agrees, because, come on, she’s Erin and Abby is Abby and Erin’s really bad at saying no, anyway.

She gets up off the couch and changes into tight black slacks, white sneakers, and a white collared shirt with black polkadots. She does her makeup and puts on a coral colored sweater and it feels sort of good to get dressed, even if she’s not going anywhere important. 

Abby’s in her usual long button down shirt and cardigan, black leggings and flats the same green as her shirt, too, and Erin knows Abby looks better than her, but, then again, Abby almost always looks better than her. She doesn’t really care, she doesn’t at all, actually, but she is a little jealous of Abby’s ability to put together a normal outfit.

She and Abby drive across the city to the restaurant. They talk about what they’ve done in the past few years and Erin doesn’t mention just how much she’s _missed_ her, Abby might not really feel the same way.  

Then Abby asks her if she’s dated anyone recently and Erin shrugs. Abby, eyes on the road, asks her if she’s straight like she’s asking if she’s showered and Erin blanches, tries to change the subject like planting trees in gravel (difficult and entirely unsuccessful). She’s 31 and Abby’s been her best friend for fifteen years, even the six that they weren’t speaking, but Erin doesn’t know why she’s asking her this, doesn’t want to think about it because she’s straight, she _is_ , and Abby might not hug her anymore if she’s not.

Abby drops it, but takes her hand when they get to the restaurant and doesn’t let go of that.

It takes Erin another week to realize that Abby probably knows. She must, after all, she’s around Erin (and Holtzmann, too) all day and she knows Erin better than anyone else. Abby isn’t stupid, but Erin can be, and she has to get out of bed at 2 A.M. when she realizes that Abby must _know_. She drags her fingernails down her arm and can’t help the surprise when it hurts.

She sits on her bedroom floor for at least an hour, trying to think and failing, trying to sleep and failing, _trying_ and failing. She falls asleep there, huddled on her carpet and close to crying. When she wakes up her arm hurts and she’s not sure why until she pushes up the sleeve and sees pink tracks from her nails.

She doesn’t look Abby in the eyes for two days, barely even talks to her, and Abby seems confused, and a little hurt, honestly, but she doesn’t say anything or confront her about it.

Then, at the table eating dinner (Thai, Erin’s favorite, she’s pretty sure), Jillian’s phone vibrates. She reads the text, rolls her eyes, and Erin wants to ask, so badly, but it’s none of her business, and Holtz might not answer anyway.

Abby, however, apparently doesn’t have any of the same qualms.

“What was that?” she asks, spoon of some sort of hot and sour soup halfway to her mouth.

“Just Sarah. Again,” Holtz sighs, rolling her eyes again.  
  
Erin has no idea who Sarah is, but she wants to know. She doesn’t ask, though, because, again, none of her business.

“What’d she want this time?” Abby asks, some combination of a teasing smile and heartfelt grimace on her lips.

“What do you think?” Jillian says, signature grin in place. “To go out again.” She takes another bite of her spring roll.

“Sarah’s her ex, by the way,” Abby tells Erin, Kevin, and Patty. Patty nods. Erin’s pretty sure she stops breathing.

“Ex might be an exaggeration,” Jillian warns. Erin still can’t feel her lungs moving, even though she knows they must be, can only feel some sort of lead weight hanging between them. “We went out three times like two months ago, and one of them was with a bunch of people to a party. She’s nice, and really pretty, but not my type,” she shrugs, winking at Erin, probably because Erin must look like she’s seen, well, a ghost, or something, because she can feel herself breathing, now, but it’s too fast. She takes a huge gulp of water and almost chokes.

Kevin says, “What is your type?” and Abby laughs.

Erin excuses herself from the table and walks to the bathroom at the most normal pace she can manage. She shuts the door behind her and leans back against it, breathing hard. Her hands shake as she locks the door and, fuck, this is _stupid._  Jillian’s gay, or not straight, at least, and Abby doesn’t care, and neither do Patty and Kevin, and Jillian’s not straight. Erin has a _chance_ , or she would if she wasn’t so uptight and socially inept and honestly _pathetic_.

“Shit.” She takes a deep breath. She can’t think about this right now; she’s been in here for at least two minutes and Abby, if not everyone, is going to notice something is wrong if she doesn’t stop acting like a complete idiot and get back out there _soon_.  

When she gets back to the table, Abby is telling Kevin about asexuality, about how she doesn't want to sleep with anyone, and Kevin asks her what it is to be the opposite of that, because apparently he doesn't love Jen _or_ Nico (no one knows or asks who Jen and Nico are), and Erin has to focus on her breathing all over again, because everyone is fucking _gay_ , apparently, and it’s _normal_ , and no one seems to care.

She makes it through dinner and a Wes Anderson movie she knows she loves but can’t pay attention to right now before she’s able to make an inconspicuous escape to her room.

She only gets halfway undressed before she ~~falls~~ sits down, pink and white pinstripe shirt, tan sweater vest, plaid boxers, and solar system socks, on her floor. She scoots back so that she can rest her back against her bed. It’s been more than four months now, almost five, but that doesn’t really mean it’s easier. She shoves her hands under her thighs and doesn’t move. 

That’s how Abby finds her, at least twenty minutes later: scared as hell and looking ridiculous.

“Hey.” Erin looks up, embarrassed. “You alright?” Erin knows Abby, and she knows Abby’s more worried than she’s letting on. Erin feels bad, but, can’t really say it’s unreasonable.

“I want to hurt myself,” she says before she has a chance to think about the words coming out of her mouth.

She realizes how stupid that was, though, and looks up. Abby looks shocked, and sort of like she might cry, and Erin feels so _awful_ , because she did that, but then Abby swallows, nods silently, and walks over to Erin, sitting down beside her.

“Sorry,” Erin whispers, and wants to mean it, she really does, but it’s honestly so _freeing_ , or relieving, at least, to have someone else know, as awful as that sounds, because now Abby’s going to worry, because Abby worries about pretty much everything, whether it’s worth it or not.

“No,” Abby shakes her head, pulling Erin into her shoulder. Abby doesn’t ask her if it’s something she’s done before or how long it’s been since she has, she doesn’t ask to see scars or tell Erin she can’t be alone, just holds onto her. 

Actually, Erin’s pretty sure Abby’s thinking about all the ways she should have realized sooner, because that’s definitely something Abby would do, and it’s pretty obvious, in retrospect.

The first time Erin cut herself she was thirteen, and that was three years before she met Abby; she was already well versed in clandestine concealment, but she’d bang her knees into tables when she was too anxious, she knows Abby saw the bruises, and pinch herself, sometimes. Abby can’t think she could have stopped it, though, she _can’t_ , because she couldn’t have, honestly.

“Did you really think she was straight?” Abby finally asks, a smile in her voice. Erin flinches, she can’t help it. Abby rubs soothing circles into her upper arm where her hand had been resting.

“I don't know,” she whispers. "I never thought about it. But it's... It's really obvious, right? I'm just super oblivious? Though, to be fair," she adds. "I thought I was straight for a long time." Erin can tell Abby wants to laugh, but she doesn’t, and that’s enough.

“You didn’t think I’d _care_ , did you?” Abby’s voice isn’t shaky, but it’s not as strong as usual. Erin knows it’s her fault. She shrugs. Abby nods, and Erin knows she wants to cry. They sit in silence for another ten minutes or so before Abby takes a deep breath.

“Okay, dummy,” she starts, voice stronger, now. “Don’t think I’m going to forget about the hurting yourself thing,” (Erin winces; Abby squeezes her shoulder) “But you need to go talk to Holtz. I’ll tell her if you don’t,” she threatens, and Erin knows she means it.

Erin gets up, shaky, and walks out of her room with Abby. She knows she still looks ridiculous, even more so than usual, but it’s now or never, honestly. 

Abby goes all the way back downstairs, leaving Erin, alone, at Jillian’s door. She can hear music playing, less loud than it usually is, and she can’t really tell what the song is, but she thinks it might be Take On Me. She waits for the song to end before she knocks.

“Un momento!” she hears Holtz call from inside. Another song doesn’t start playing, so Erin assumes she must have paused the music.

Jillian opens the door, looking stunning, as always, especially compared to Erin at the moment. Actually, Erin wouldn’t be that surprised if Holtz wore what Erin is wearing now as an actual outfit someday, because right now Jillian’s in a pair of tropical print capri joggers that Erin’s sure came from the men’s section, a loose black tank top that says “X-Men” in blue and yellow 3-D font, her red Oriental-esque jacket bathrobe, and two different socks with her space age spectacles hanging from one ear. And it looks good. 

She has the chain of her necklace between her teeth, but she drops it when she sees Erin. 

“Good evening, Dr. Gilbert” she drawls, winking. Erin hates herself for it, but she blushes. Holtz steps back, dramatically sweeping her arm to usher Erin into the room. It’s a mess, honestly, but not in a bad way, and Erin spends at least twenty seconds just looking around.

She looks back to Jillian who’s standing, hands clasped behind her head, in the middle of the room, staring at Erin. Erin takes a deep breath and says nothing.

“So,” Holtz says after more than a minute of silence. “What can I do for you this evening?” She winks again, because that’s just what she does, and Erin thinks she might melt. 

“I-” Erin takes another deep breath. “Oh my god, I just…” Jillian’s still watching her, a strange smile on her face and, Jesus, Erin is so fucking _smitten_.  

“God,” Erin breathes. “I just want to _kiss_ you, all the time.” Erin doesn’t even have time to regret what she says before Jillian is two steps closer and talking.

“Great!” she grins. “How about now?” And Erin swears her heart has turned into that of a hummingbird, but she nods, and Jillian is holding her by the time her knees give out, and her mouth is on Erin’s and her hands are on her waist and Erin’s pretty sure if she died right now it would be fine; she’d still have gotten everything she wanted.

They keep kissing, and it’s _wonderful_ , but then everything catches up to Erin and she has to sit down before she passes out. Jillian’s good about it though, leads Erin to her bed and gives her a T shirt to wear, turns around while Erin changes. She lies down beside her, still in the same clothes, and holds Erin’s hand. She rubs her thumb over Erin’s wrist comfortingly and doesn’t ask about the ridges on her skin. Erin’s pretty sure she wants to marry her.  

Jillian’s gone when Erin wakes up, but there’s a cup of coffee with a Post-it note stuck to it on her bedside table. Erin peels off the note, reads it (just her name and a smiley face), then takes a sip of the coffee, which is surprisingly just the way she likes it, which wouldn’t be that strange if she drank coffee like a normal person, but she doesn’t. She uses so much milk and literally no sugar, just a few drops of honey, which she knows is _weird_ , but Jillian remembered it and that’s just really _sweet_.  

She takes the mug to her room before she goes downstairs, and changes into her black jeans. She keeps Jillian’s t shirt on and walks down to the lab like that, short sleeves and all, no matter how naked it makes her feel, because Abby and Holtz both at least sort of know about her arms now, and it’s mostly pointless at this point, anyway. 

Holtzmann’s at her work table, now in black paint splattered overalls rolled up almost to her knees, different socks, her boots, a striped purple and black shirt, her same red jacket, and her biggest goggles, and Erin smiles.

Abby walks in, then, gives Erin one glance, looks over to Jillian, then back to Erin, and starts laughing. Erin blushes. Holtzmann looks up, grins at Abby, and winks, then goes back to whatever she’s working on.

Erin follows Abby into the kitchen, sits cross legged in a chair at the table and drinks her coffee while Abby makes pancakes and bacon.

“So?” Abby asks after a few minutes. Erin blushes.

“Yeah,” Erin mumbles. Then, “No, I mean we didn’t like, oh god, umm, like yes, but not like…” She stops. Abby’s laughing, rolling her eyes. Erin glares at her, but honestly couldn’t care less.

When Patty walks in as Erin’s finishing her coffee, dressed as elaborately as usual, she takes one look at Erin and stops, staring.

“What?” Erin asks, suddenly nervous all over again. Patty shakes her head. 

“That’s Holtz’s favorite shirt. She wouldn’t let me wear it.” Erin blushes again, because apparently that’s a thing she does like, all the time, but doesn’t say anything.

“Oh,” Patty says after a moment. “Y’all a thing, now?” Erin lowers her eyes, nods all the same, and hears Abby laugh again from behind her. Patty nods and continues to the coffee maker.

“You want more?” she asks a moment later. Erin looks up, sees Patty holding the pot, and nods. She holds out her mug and sees Patty’s eyes follow the lines up her arms, but Patty just smiles at her, pours more coffee, and comes back a second later with the milk and sugar. Erin’s pouring in milk (a lot of it), when Abby sets the honey down on the table. 

“Wrong,” Abby says, sticking her tongue out at Patty like the child she is. “She’s like the weirdest coffee drinker ever,” she stage whispers. Erin laughs. 

“Yeah… You are aware of how much sugar you use, right?” Abby rolls her eyes. “And that you try to trick people into thinking you drink your coffee black like, and I quote, ‘a true scientist,’ yeah?” Patty laughs. Abby flips her off, flips Patty off, too, then turns back to the pancakes.  
  
Erin has to basically tear Jillian away from her work, because that’s Erin’s job now, apparently, but they eventually all sit down to breakfast just as Kevin walks in, cuffed pants, lensless glasses, cardigan, and all. He joins them, of course, and it’s good. It’s normal. Jillian clicks her tongue, winks at Erin from across the table and Erin swears her heart skips two beats, but it’s _good_.


End file.
